


ain't ever been much of a singing cowboy

by blackeyedblonde



Category: True Detective
Genre: Animals, Fluff, Gen, Horseback Riding, Horses, Husbands, M/M, Post-Series, gratuitous references to 20th century western films
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 15:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14404728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: “That ain’t as easy as it used to be,” Marty says, sounding a little winded but grinning all the same. He sits up straighter in the saddle and tips his head to one side, striking a pose like some bedazzled cowpoke on the front of an old-timey postcard. “How do I look?”“Like John fuckin’ Wayne,” Rust says, keeping his features held straight even as Marty splutters out a laugh and looks away. “A real American wild man.”





	ain't ever been much of a singing cowboy

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I started this last November and at long (and torturous) last, it's close enough to being something I'd call complete. Not anything "highfalutin" as Marty might say, but it got so long-winded I thought the piece merited its own post instead of going straight into my scraps compilation. I've always wanted to see these old rednecks interact with some horses, and it took four years but we finally made it. That said, if you don't like horses....you'd better turn back now, lol. I'm a crazy horse girl and I cannot lie.

 

  
  
Rust sits sprawl legged in the passenger seat of his truck, eyes at half-mast while he watches the scrub forest and a mildewed trailer park called _Wahneeta’s Wharf_ pass them by through his window. The engine runs easy and Marty drives without hurry or hassle, comfortable in his flannel overshirt, humming along with Loretta Lynn’s sweet croon on the radio. Rust suspects he could turn the truck’s heater off and there’d be enough warmth coming off Marty that they wouldn’t even notice the chill.

Louisiana’s take on early springtime is mild at best, all the bite in any cooler weather getting warmed up by the buttery sun. It’s a different kind of spring awakening than what Rust knew in Alaska, not so much a gradual thawing as it is a flourish of rebirth. Most of the foliage is turning green again, bright and young in the wake of winter’s passing. The oak trees are only beginning to dust the ground with pollen but a few have sprouted new leaves with a sort of southern-bred defiance.

They cross a bridge the color of tarnished penny and Marty kisses two fingers and touches them against the truck’s roof in a habit he’s had for as long as Rust can remember. “Dillon told me he left the tack room key under the cat dish if we wanted to ride,” he says once they’re on solid ground again. “It’s too pretty of a damn day to go turning up my nose at an offer like that.”

Rust cuts a sleepy look from the corner of his eye and almost smiles. “What you’re meaning to say is that he didn’t have to go and ask you twice.”

“The man went down the long list of horse people he knows and crossed everybody off until he got to my name, so yeah, I’m thinking we’re gonna make the most of it,” Marty says with a wave of his hand. “I’m happy to help out with the animals. Sometimes I even miss being around the life, truth be told.”

Yeah, Rust thinks to himself. Marty might’ve left the bull riding circuit behind before Audrey was born, a few long years before Rust ever knew him, but parts of that life never quite washed out of Marty. He can see it in the way Marty’s hips move when he walks, in the broadness of his hands—a rancher’s silhouette when the wind is tuned right. He makes a fine detective but he could’ve been another version of himself if the cards had fallen differently, maybe in the same universe where Rust studied art and became a painter. Some tall drink of water with three hundred acres out in Montana who spent his days working the land and tending his stock, all of it set against a backdrop of distant mauve mountaintops.

“You’re over there daydreamin’ about something,” Marty says, turning the truck down a long drive of hard-packing clay. “Probably how good I look in the saddle.”

Rust doesn’t say anything about that in particular. Only, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you ride anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor.”

“That makes two of us then, slick,” Marty says. They pass a few derelict driveways marked by rusted-out mailboxes and an overturned trashcan but keep going further down the lane, deeper into the tracked vein of Louisiana backcountry. “When’s the last time you were on a horse? I bet you can’t even remember.”

Rust ponders that for a moment, trying to flip back through the creased pages of memory in his mind. Other than a fat little pony he once walked beside around a tiny corral while Sophia giggled on its back, he can’t think of ever being around the beasts in his adult life.

“Not since I was a boy,” he says, bringing a hand up to brush over his mouth. He thinks the rest of the story about the pony his Pop once butchered come hard times in winter can go without saying for this particular morning. “Long time ago.”

Marty slows the truck at the road’s dead end and lets it idle once they roll to a stop in front of an iron farm gate painted green. There’s a trespassing notice bolted to the front and a mailbox in the shape of a big-mouth bass staked into the earth with _D.D._ painted on the side, but other than that there’s no real indication they’ve arrived at Dillon Dundee’s ranch.

“Double D,” Rust says offhand, pondering the outlandish mailbox. Marty snorts in the seat beside him.

“That was his arena name, and for good measure if you use your imagination,” Marty says. He leans across the bench seat and reaches over to click the button on Rust’s seatbelt. “Shotgun gets to play dumb cowboy and get the gate, darlin’.”

Rust slides out of the truck and goes to unlatch the gate, letting it swing wide with a groan so Marty can pull into the gravel driveway. He pushes it shut and then hauls himself back up into the cab, looking through the dusty windshield at the long lane ahead. Other than two tire tracks worn into the earth there’s nothing but scrub trees and palmetto and the remnants of barbed wire fencing keeping it all from creeping into the road. “How far back into the sticks does this place go?”

“Maybe ‘bout a quarter mile or so before it opens up on the acreage,” Marty says. “Could be further than that—it’s been a while since I’ve been out here to visit, but yeah, he’s got some nice land.”

The brittle forest on either side of the lane gradually thins out until they give way to the beginnings of front pasture, empty now save for a few overturned water troughs and the ancient oak trees that had been left there to shade the animals. Rust can see the big red barn in the distance now, sitting up higher on a little hill behind what must be the ranch house. The drive winds past a little pond full of bobbing ducks, Muscovy and smaller mallards alike.

Marty bypasses the house in favor of driving the truck up toward the barn, and from there they can see a few of the horses further off in the closest pasture. They’re far enough away still that they look like painted figurines placed against a sprawling diorama, though one lifts its head up at the sound of the approaching engine and gazes toward the barn in interest.

“Dillon took his dogs but we’re looking out for everybody else,” Marty says, turning off the ignition once they’re parked by an outdoor arena with rodeo barrels set up inside. He ticks off each group of animals on a finger, marking his mental checklist. “That means horses, ducks, cats, and the donkey.”

They both set foot on the ground and make way toward the barn. The red doors are broad and sun-faded but charming as they come, the wooden beam above nailed with a four-leaf clover fashioned from old horseshoes. There’s a commotion of mewing before Marty can even slide the doors open all the way and out from the crack tumbles a trio of kittens, the whole lot of them fluffy orange and white.

“Hold on now, fellas,” Marty says, trying to mind his feet while Rust stoops over to pick up the one already trying to climb his pants leg. Mama cat slinks out a moment later with a meow of her own and looks up expectantly with green jewel eyes, and so Rust lets her lead the way to the feed room where they find the cat kibble and water bowl. He sets the kitten down while Marty shakes some food out onto their dish and then all four go to town, crunching and purring while they eat breakfast.

“There’s a couple more dishes around the barn for the others, I think,” Marty says, handing Rust a scoop full of food before turning to heft the lid off a metal trashcan painted with _duck feed_. “I’ll get this bucket going and put it in the back of the truck, we can drive down to the pond real quick while the horses eat.”

Rust walks past the empty horse stalls and encounters the other feline residents within just a few moments, a stormy grey tomcat and another smaller calico that lead him right to where their bowls are. He gives the lanky calico a light stroke along her spine and idly thinks about Ghost back at home before turning to head back toward the feed room.

Marty is busy peering at a clipboard tacked up on the wall, squinting at a printed sheet with each horse’s photo, name, and the amount of grain they eat every day. There’s a stack of plastic feed buckets on the ground by his feet, about ten in total, each one printed with a different nickname.

“I don’t know what the hell beet pulp is good for, but all the senior horses need it mixed in with their feed,” Marty says, kicking the toe of his boot against one of the canisters. “Everybody else gets the usual grain, some sweet feed, and supplement powder. The baby gets some of the foal mix Dillon’s already put together for us.”

“The baby?” Rust says, leaning against the doorjamb while he watches the orange kittens finish up the last of their kibble nearby.

“His prize cutting horse threw a filly about two months ago,” Marty says, tapping one of the photos on the clipboard that Rust can’t quite see from where he’s standing. “They’re out in their own pasture away from the rest of the herd, but I guess he leaves the donkey in with them to keep anything from coming after the baby.”

From there they separate out the buckets and begin filling them up, Marty with the grain scoop and Rust manning the sweet feed can. The smell of rich molasses wafts up into his nose while he works and he’s almost tempted to put a piece in his mouth just to suck the sweetness off it. The aroma of alfalfa bales stacked around them has already tickled his nose into some distant memory he can’t quite place, though for Marty the reminiscing is all too clear.

“I spent the summer before high school started out on my great uncle’s ranch,” he says, shaking some of the so-called beet pulp into a bucket and wrinkling his nose at the slightly fermented smell. “Fed the animals every morning and night for two months straight. Horses, goats, cows, the whole nine. Nearly got gored by his longhorn bull once or twice—the shit that builds character, y’know.”

Rust imagines a younger, smaller shade of Marty—not yet filled out in the shoulders, still not grown into his own swagger—with a thick swath of corn silk hair, turning tail and sprinting across a pasture before launching himself over a barbed wire fence. He’d probably come away bloody but all the more brazen for it, armed with something that would’ve made for a fine story later.

“Alright, let’s haul this out,” Marty says, picking up three buckets with a grunt. He’s got the clipboard stuffed under one arm and two more feed buckets in his other hand. “Everybody’s probably waiting for us at the buffet line.”

Sure enough, there are nine horses and a scruffy donkey all lined up with their heads hanging over the top rail of the fence. The foal only reaches her mother’s shoulder and spreads her front legs like a newborn fawn to peek down below two of the lower boards, little ears pricked forward and twitching.

“We already know three out of ten without having to check,” Rust says with a nod toward the donkey and its two companions, setting a few of his buckets down on the ground. “Who gets the retirement special?”

“Chart says Hooch and Ladybird are the old folks,” Marty says, pointing out the two horses in question. They seem to know they’re special by their own right, already standing together at the far end of the line. Ladybird is all strawberry roan beginning to go grey in the face, Hooch a big sorrel gelding with two white feet and one blind eye.

They hang each horse’s bucket on a hook nailed into the fence posts, meeting one new face at a time while the others patiently stand by. There’s Badger and Rigby, two black and white pintos who look like they could be twins. Buttermilk the buckskin comes next, a long-legged lady with coloring like peanut butter pie, and then her neighbor Tallulah, stout and spotted with one blue eye and one brown. The last man standing among the larger herd is Cash, and Rust watches Marty’s face light up the moment he lays eyes on him.

Cash shines like diluted gold in the Louisiana sunshine, a great big palomino with a blonde mane and tail and a white blaze down his face. He nods his head as if on cue when he sees his feed bucket, and Marty can’t help but reach up to swipe a hand over the horse’s forehead before stepping back to let him eat.

“He reminds me of a horse I used to ride in my rodeo days,” Marty says a tad modestly, like this truth is something too sentimental to bring up.  Rust wonders about that until he sees the brightness around the edges of his husband’s eyes, and then it’s easy to understand that Marty’s capacity for loving something has gone well beyond the realm of people and vices in his past.

“I loved that damn horse,” Marty says a little gruffly before wandering over to the next paddock where the donkey has started braying with impatience. “He had a good last few years, though. Owner sold him off to somebody with a couple of kids who rode him bareback around the pasture after he got too old to cut cows. There’s worse retirement plans out there, I guess.”

Rust hums in agreement at that and goes to fetch the last three buckets he’d left waiting on the ground, the first of which goes to the waiting donkey. The little beast honks at them again and dives right into his grain, ears bobbing while he chews. The name on his bucket simply reads P.I.T.A. with a round dot after each letter, purposefully marked there with black marker.

“Pita,” Marty mutters aloud. “Like the fuckin’ bread?”

“Pain in the ass,” Rust drawls, stirring a barking laugh out of Marty. “Suiting, seems like.”

“A good donkey is better than a guard dog, so I guess he’s worth the trouble,” Marty says. “They’ll try and kill any fuckin’ wild animal that gets too close for comfort.”

Their last two customers on the fence line are a picture of saintly patience, mama and baby standing together with their flanks up against the planking now. The foal tries to poke her head up under the mare to nurse and then looks up again real quick when she hears Rust shake the grain around in its bucket.

“Here’s yours, Miss Blackbird,” Marty says, hanging the mare’s bucket up for her to eat. Rust doesn’t know much about horses beyond the bare basics but just looking at Blackbird, he can tell she’s worth a prettier penny than most of the other animals they’ve seen so far. Her coat is as dark as a raven’s wing, so black it almost shines blue when she turns just so. It’s a miracle she hasn’t faded to a duller brown under the beating sun, though Rust suspects she’s been recently clipped down to get rid of any lingering winter coat. Black as night from stem to stern, save for a splash of pure white on her face about the size of a handprint.  

“This horse has won Dillon some decent money, so I’ve heard,” Marty says, and then takes the foal feeder from Rust to hang it over the second plank on the fence. “Little missy here has got some big shoes to fill.”

The filly may as well be the spitting image of her mother, only this time with three white stockings alongside the telltale dash of white on her nose. Her tail swishes to and fro while she noses the grain in her foal feeder, and she manages about two bites before curiosity wins over breakfast and she pokes her head through the fence to greet Rust and Marty with a tiny whinny.

Rust holds out a palm and the baby’s whiskered nose goes right into it, warm and soft as shaved velvet. She snuffles and nibbles a little at the sleeve of his flannel shirt before he gently nudges her away to eat again.

“Pippa,” Marty says, reaching through the fence to scratch through the filly’s fuzzy mane. “I think the stock chart says her full name is Blackbird’s _Painted Pippa Pepper_.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t know who comes up with this shit, but there you go.”

They leave the horses to their breakfast and hop back into the truck for a quick trip down to the pond. Rust rests his elbows on the bed and stays behind to watch, letting Marty take the bucket of cracked corn and go about his business. The ducks raise a ruckus when they see him at the gate, some flying from the other side of the bank to rush toward their feeder. It’s not the best smell in the world, muddy pond water and all, and Rust wrinkles his nose but his mouth twitches when Marty hollers at one of the Muscovy drakes for pecking around his ankles.

“Lilah’d get a kick out of this place,” he says, voice traveling downwind toward his partner. Marty shoos another duck away and finishes spreading the feed out, not wasting any time with half-jogging back up to the gate so he can escape.

“Goddamn birds,” he huffs, latching the chain and tossing the empty bucket back into the bed of the truck. “You know Audrey was talking about getting some chicks for Lilah to raise there on their property, and I’ve got more than half the mind to tell her off it. Nothing but mess and racket all hours of the day, especially if you wind up with a rooster.”

“You know you ain’t changing anything about something Audrey’s set her mind to,” Rust says casually, squinting at Marty through the mild morning. “There’ll just be twice as many chickens as you originally thought instead.”

“Don’t I know it,” Marty says with a sigh, wiping his boots off in the grass before swinging into the driver’s seat. They head back toward the barn and he glances over at Rust with a little bit of that wicked gleam in his eye again. “You ready to go ride here in a little bit, cowboy?”

Rust looks back from the corner of his eye with a steady blink. “Those horses have barely finished eating.”

“We can kill an hour before we saddle up,” Marty says, the old truck rattling like a tin can around them as they go over a pothole in the lane. “Dillon left the key to the back door in the deer skull on the porch. Says we can go in and make ourselves at home.”

Rust lets out a soft guffaw at that. “When’s the last time you even saw this fabled Double D? Way you talk, it might’ve been last week instead of twenty-odd years ago.”

“Now, you know it ain’t been that long,” Marty fires back, though he takes on a pensive look for a moment while he counts back the years. “Well, I guess it was a year or two before your ass came back down here to thaw when you left Alaska. All the old rodeo guys would come out sometimes for a few beers, tell old buckle bunny stories, you know. I might’ve made an appearance a time or two.”

“But I mean,” Marty adds with a little shrug, “Dillon’s good people—haven’t seen him in a few good years but we keep up from time to time. I follow him on…what’s that shit called? The Insta-Frame? You know what the hell I’m talking about.”

Rust has only ever really used his phone to take calls and maybe plug a few numbers into the calculator or an address into the GPS, but he knows what Marty’s talking about because he’s always looking over the other man’s shoulder at some picture or another that one of the girls posted—Macie and Raleigh on their trip to Florence, Lilah dressed up for her kindergarten classroom’s leprechaun hunt at school, and then the new tattoo Audrey had gotten for her 35th birthday, a woven wreath of flowers around one shoulder, some of which looked suspiciously like a certain little girl’s botanical namesake.

The truck slows to a stop in front of the ranch house and they head around to the rear. Sure as the world, there’s a buck skull with a full rack of antlers nailed to the beam above the back door. Marty reaches up to poke a finger into its empty eye socket, a little gingerly with a taut expression pinching his features together, and fishes out a key on a small loop of twine.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat a bit. “You know that wouldn’t be the first place anybody’d go looking.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Rust says, following Marty up the steps and inside the house.  
  


* * *  
  


An hour and a couple glasses of iced tea later they walk back up the hill to the barn on foot, the duck feed bucket swinging in Marty’s hand as they go along. It’s only just beginning to reach midday and the sun is bright but nowhere near burning, a kind and mellow warmth on the back of Rust’s neck and hands. In a few months’ time the Louisiana summer will be turning him and Marty both a deeper brown from their afternoons and weekends spent out in the garden or fishing down at the docks, but for now Marty’s still wearing his fairer winter complexion, the tips of his ears and nose tinged a little pink. Rust had managed enough foresight to convince him to take a hat with him when they left the house that morning, and despite all his moaning and groaning he thinks Marty’s quietly glad that he did.

“You got any hot picks for who you want to take out on the trail?” he asks Rust, though his eyes are turned toward the paddock where some of the horses are still loitering around the hay bales and water trough. “Far as I know they’re all game to ride, save for the new mama of course and that damn donkey.”

Rust squints off somewhere into the distant scrub forest at the edges of the pasture and keeps his face held even. “Well I know I can’t take that big yellow one out, because it seems somebody else around here has already gone and claimed him.”

“Shit,” Marty laughs while he plods along, bucket knocking against the side of his knee now. “I mean, it’s not like I was making it any big secret or nothing. Practically stood there and fuckin’ waxed poetic about the old palomino I used to ride.”

“That’s fine by me,” Rust says, unbothered, though it’s always something of a private delight to ruffle Marty’s feathers up in good humor. “I’ll find somebody willing.”

When they walk into the barn and feed room this time, the kittens aren’t quite as lively in their greeting but still pad around with their little tails in the air, curious green and yellow eyes peeking around corners to see what’s going on. Marty gets the tack room key from under the cat dish and opens the padlock on the door, opening it up to the balmy scent of saddle soap and well-loved leather.

“Oof, get you a good lungful of that,” he says, sucking in a deep pull of air through his nose. “Practically better than new car smell.”

Something about it makes Rust immediately think of his father, though he couldn’t be exactly certain as to why. Maybe the faded memory of tanned hides, boot polish before dawn, musk and firewood. He takes the halter and lead rope Marty hands him and mentally steps out of the cabin in Alaska, firmly closing the door so it latches shut.

“We might wind up taking whoever we can dupe into getting haltered,” Marty says, taking his own halter off a hook and slinging it in the crook of his forearm. “When they catch wind of what we’re doing they may decide they want the day off.”

Back at the pasture fence line Rust watches the herd for a moment, quiet for now, simply letting his eye stray to where it wants to go without any real notions in mind. He looks at the twin pinto brothers, further off than the rest, already grazing side by side and completely uninterested in their visitors now that breakfast has been had. Ladybird and Hooch are kind in the face and have enough age to keep them mild and happy to trot along for nothing more than a change of scenery, but they’ve earned their retirement and he doesn’t feel much like putting either to work this morning.

That leaves the two mares, Buttermilk and Tallulah, the former currently plopping down in a patch of dirt to roll herself around for an impromptu dust bath. She kicks up her hind legs and gets herself good and dirty, and by the time she’s standing on all fours again and shaking sand out of her mane Rust figures his mind has been made up for him.

He gives short whistle, loud and high, and both horses look up. Buttermilk’s flank twitches but she doesn’t move, and Tallulah stands still as a statue, only her calico tail drifting some in the breeze, watching and being watched in return. Her coat doesn’t shine as pretty as some of the other horses but for all its freckles and splotches of color she looks like a breathing throw of wet pebbles on a clay riverbank to his eyes, speckled and flecked with grey and brown, something borne up from the earth itself.

When she picks up a foot and takes her first step back toward the fence, he can’t quite help but smile.

“Won yourself an Indian pony, I see,” Marty says, not unkindly, while the horse ambles over to them and inclines her head for a scratch. “I should’ve known you’d still be a real charm with the ladies.” He watches as Rust brushes her forelock away from her one blue eye and slips the halter over her head, easy as anything. She waits while he climbs up the fence and drops down beside her, the both of them side by side in the pasture.

“Now you’re gonna make me look bad,” Marty sighs, sounding woeful and long-suffering. “Cash probably ain’t gonna come easy, considering nothing I want ever does.”

Rust pats Tallulah’s neck and turns to look off to where the big golden horse is standing at leisure, one hind hoof cocked on point while he seems to doze in place. “Go up and reintroduce yourself,” he says. “Maybe bring a handful of something good when you do.”

When Marty returns from the barn with a pocket full of sweet feed, smelling vaguely of molasses with a look of quiet determination on his face, Rust settles back on his heels with Tallulah and waits for the show.

Only Cash’s ears twitch as he watches Marty approach, still lazing in the sun with his eyes at half-mast. It seems to take a moment for him to register the halter draped in the crook of Marty’s arm, and when he does his big head swings around like he’s got to see this shit for himself.

“Whoa there, boy,” Marty says, already digging into his pocket for a treat. “We’re gonna go for a little walk, how ‘bout that?” He makes a few kissy sounds against the back of his teeth and Cash only stares, nostrils flaring a little bit when he smells the sweet feed.

Not that he’s ever had reason to doubt Marty’s self-fabled ease around stock animals, but Rust still feels a pleasant little jolt of surprise as he watches Marty hold out his hand, get Cash distracted with a mouthful of grain, and easily slide the halter and lead rope up over his head in one fell swoop. It’s a seamless sort of exchange—the horse gets his food, and Marty gets his horse. As a matter of fact, the latter doesn’t even seem to notice he’s been caught until he goes to start grazing again and realizes there’s a lead rope in Marty’s hands.

“Gotcha,” Marty says, patting the palomino’s neck with a gap-toothed grin shining. He looks over his shoulder at Rust and winks. “Guess I still got a little bit of the old touch in there somewhere.”

‘The old touch,” Rust echoes in a drawl, going to unlatch the pasture gate with Tallulah trailing behind him. “Giving Roy Rogers a run for his money.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Marty huffs, leading Cash up toward the barn. “You know I ain’t ever been much of a singing cowboy.”

Rust squints up toward the barn, watching a few of the kittens scatter when they see Cash’s big hooves ambling along. Once they’re inside the horses’ shoes clop along on the swept concrete, the metallic echo drawing up the bitter taste of iron in Rust’s mouth. He ties Tallulah up next to Cash and takes the rubber curry comb Marty hands him to get some of the dried mud off her hindquarters. They groom without hurry but work in relative quiet, brushing down the horses and running a comb through their manes and tails. Marty tidies up their feet with a hoof pick and then declares it’s time to tack up, heading off to get fetch a pair of saddle pads.

While he’s out of earshot Rust leans closer to Tallulah and scratches around her ears, voice lowered to a murmur. “You know what you’re doing, right?” he asks the horse, who only lowers her head for more scratches. She’ll have no trouble keeping a secret between the two of them. “Since I’m not exactly sure if I do anymore.”

He’s not nervous, really—maybe a little unbalanced with the notion of going into something without any honest practice. Rust has ridden a horse before, a long time ago, but he didn’t have a bit or a saddle and the old swaybacked pony only had one speed on her, and that was a half-lame walk.

Marty seems to have faith in him, though, and maybe that’s all he needs. Heaven knows if Marty asked Rust to pull the full moon out of the sky for him, he’d be sorely tempted to reach up and goddamn try.

“Here we go,” Marty says upon his return, carrying two woven saddle blankets. He tosses the first one up on Cash’s back and then hands the other to Rust before getting them both straightened out up to the horses’ withers. “You’ll have to come back with me and get your saddle, they probably weigh forty pounds apiece.”

In the tack room there’s probably twenty different saddles to choose from, some old and some new, some big and some small, some plain leather and others finely decorated. Thankfully for Rust and Marty, Cash and Tallulah each have a dedicated rack on the wall inset with their namesake. Each horse’s trail saddle is ready and waiting with their bit and bridle hanging on a nail overhead.

“Aww, would you look at that,” Marty crows when Rust hefts Tallulah’s saddle up into his arms. “A pretty little flower just for you.”

Sure as shit, somebody has delicately painted over a sunflower tooled into the brown leather. Rust runs a thumb over the shape, well-worn but textured by the yellow and white pigment layered on top of it. He immediately thinks of Lilah. Part of him is pained that they’re here without her, but with a little prodding and effort on Marty’s part he knows they’ll be able to come back again someday with her in tow. That thought alone is enough to make his mouth turn up into a smile.

“Think the mare belongs to one of Dillon’s granddaughters,” Marty says, heaving Cash’s larger saddle up off the rack with a grunt. “Be glad she’s not a rhinestone rodeo princess, lest you’d be tacking up with some hot pink number.”

The horses sigh and shift on their feet while Marty tightens and checks their girth straps, doing up all manners of buckles and fastenings like an old pro. He coaxes the bit into Tallulah’s mouth and then nearly jumps when Cash opens wide and all but pushes his head into his bridle, ears pricked forward and intent now.

“Guess that means one of us is ready,” Marty says. He turns to where Rust is holding Tallulah’s reins in hand and looking vaguely contemplative. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Rust says, and means it. He lets Marty and Cash lead the way out of the barn and into the midday sun where the horses seem to glow a little brighter now that they’ve been brushed down and gussied up a bit. Marty goes to put his foot in the stirrup and then pauses, turning instead to slip a finger into Tallulah’s bridle to keep her steady.

“Up you go first,” he says, squinting up at Rust. “Just for my peace of mind, if you’ll humor me.”

Rust plants his left boot into the stirrup and swings himself up and over, settling down into the seat without a problem. Tallulah doesn’t budge an inch other than a lazy swish of her tail, and when Marty’s satisfied enough to turn her loose he goes around to Cash’s side and hoists himself up onto the taller horse with a little swear and some mild creaking.

“That ain’t as easy as it used to be,” Marty says, sounding a little winded but grinning all the same. He sits up straighter in the saddle and tips his head to one side, striking a pose like some bedazzled cowpoke on the front of an old-timey postcard. “How do I look?”

“Like John fuckin’ Wayne,” Rust says, keeping his features held straight even as Marty splutters out a laugh and looks away. “A real American wild man.”

“You hush with all that,” Marty says, waving him off with one hand. “Neither Roy Rogers nor John Wayne had a longtime sidekick, ‘less you count Miss Dale Evans, and you might be pretty but I don’t know if you could hold a candle to her.”

Rust quirks an eyebrow and then urges Tallulah forward at a walk, easing himself into the rhythm of her muscles moving beneath him. “A sidekick, huh,” he says, cutting a look over at Marty.

“You’re the Sundance to my Butch, so I figure that keeps us on equal footing,” Marty says, sounding tactful through his humor, and Rust knows without a doubt that this is a notion Marty’s given actual thought before, probably while he was sitting in his recliner one weekend watching Paul Newman and Robert Redford take a running jump start off a cliff with nothing but a twisted shirt and high hopes keeping them held together.

“Yep,” Marty says, clicking his tongue to urge Cash around a groove in the trail. “Two for one, come hell or high water.    
  


* * *  
  


The trail starts with a wide mouth and then grows narrower the further they go into the woods, the horses naturally falling into a single file in lieu of walking side by side. Marty had urged the big palomino ahead to take the lead, but the horse held back and waited until Rust and Tallulah moved in front instead.

“He must like watching the gals from behind,” Marty grunts, falling back into a walk behind Rust and his horse.

“More like he knows who’s boss,” Rust says over his shoulder, smiling a bit when he hears Marty swear under his breath. He leans forward at that and pats Tallulah’s freckled neck, even more dappled now with sunlight coming down through the treetops. “Good girl. Keep ‘em in line.”

It’s a nice ride, all things told. The horses are happy to trot along with their heads and ears bobbing while songbirds flit around overhead and Rust even spots some coon tracks in a muddier part of the trail. He feels more comfortable in the saddle than he might’ve thought before they got this far, but Tallulah’s smooth gait is probably factoring more into that than anything else.

And then the trail opens up into an empty field, flat and sprawling, and Marty proposes a race.

“You think you can hack it, cowboy?” he asks, nudging Cash up alongside Tallulah now so they’re walking alongside each other again. “If you ain’t ready we can take it slow.”  

Rust shifts some in his saddle and balances the reigns in his right hand with all the finesse of an old cigarette. The land laid out in front of them is flat and even, lush with springtime green, and probably stretches the length of two or three football fields before the forest starts crowding in again on the other side. Tallulah looks ahead like she’s staring into a challenge and Cash is already dancing in place with his front hooves pawing the earth. It’s almost like they knew the answer before they even got the cue.

“Sure, we can race,” Rust says, testing his thigh muscles against the horse’s sides. He checks his boots in the stirrups and then looks over at Marty. “Where to?”

A brief shadow of surprise passes over Marty’s features before it’s replaced with a wicked sort of smile. He points to one of the only oaks left standing in the field, a big brute of a tree with limbs that hang so low in places they almost touch the ground. “First one past the tree wins.”

He spins Cash around in place and then stills him again, mouth pinched up like how he gets when he’s pondering something. “You sure you’re good to run?”

“I’ve done crazier shit before,” Rust says with a shrug.

“Because that makes me feel a lot better,” Marty snorts, shaking his head. “Jesus H. Christ.”

“Tallulah here will take care of me,” Rust says, then urges her back a step or two so she’s even with Cash. “On three.”

“On three,” Marty echoes, and then curves his shoulders in like a runner on the starting line. “One, two—yah!”

Cash takes off like a golden bullet and Tallulah isn’t far behind him despite being slower to start. Rust’s hair and shirt whip back and they’re hot on Marty’s heels and gaining by the second. The former quiet of the afternoon is replaced by shrill wind in Rust’s ears and the thunder of hooves and maybe a spike of adrenaline ringing through his veins, but Rust keeps the little appaloosa held back until the old tree is within 100 yards. He can feel her straining, every muscle in her body wanting to go for it, and when he lets her go into a full gallop it’s like cutting a kite string in a hurricane.

She rears ahead to pace Cash and sees the taller horse through to the very end, the two of them in a matched stride so close it’d be impossible to tell who broke past the tree first without a photo finish. Rust and Marty pull back on the reigns and the horses start to slow, cantering and then easing down into a fast walk. Their sides bellow and they glow with a light sheen of sweat along their flanks but they seemed pleased with themselves, shaking out their manes and still prancing along despite their tie.

Marty lets out a whoop and seems just as pleased, patting Cash’s shoulder and grinning like a loon. “Your girl there must have some wild pony in her,” he says. “She’s got those stocky little legs but boy she knows how to use them. If we went further than a quarter-mile she might’ve beat Cash outright.”

Rust’s stomach still feels like it’s somewhere back where he left it at the opposite end of the field, but he cracks a real smile despite himself and reaches up to run a shaky hand through his hair.

“One hell of a rush,” he says, and thinks about the implications of that. It’s one thing to feel wild and feral with fear and cocaine pumping through every inch of your body like white lightning, but a few moments ago had been another thing entirely. If it hadn’t been for the sound of horse hooves on the earth he might’ve thought they were flying.

“I’ll say,” Marty answers, and damn if he doesn’t look nearly radiant with the happiness beaming off him under the sun. “Can’t tell you how much I’d missed that.”

They keep the horses at an easy walk to cool down, and after a while they find a welcoming patch of shade at a far corner of the field. Everybody seems content to rest for a spell, and so Rust and Marty swing out of their saddles and sit in the grass with their legs stretched out in front of them, letting the horses idly crop at grass with their reins trailing along behind.

“We should live on a farm,” Marty says, so plain and sudden that it startles a laugh out of Rust.

“And sell the firm and cash out your 401K too, I reckon,” Rust says. “Place like this must cost a fortune these days.”  

Marty cuts him a narrow look but keeps on dreaming. “It wouldn’t have to be this damn big, obviously,” he says. “Just enough room for a couple horses, a little barn, a garden patch, some chickens—y’know, modest fare.”

“Doesn’t sound bad,” Rust says. “We might be getting a little old for all that, though.”

“Nah,” Marty says, waving him off. “You got some life left in you yet. And I don’t plan on moving into the retirement home anytime soon—or ever, if I've got any say in it.”

Tallulah has wandered a little further off, still within reach but clearly content with minding her own business instead of hanging out with the boys. Rust watches her and her spotted coat seems to shimmer and change with every step, a new throw of paint depending on each new slant of light. He wonders if the texture of her pelt is making his eyes deceive him and then figures if it is a vision, he doesn’t really mind at all.

Cash’s head comes up with a mouthful of grass still mid-chew, shuffling back over to sniff the top of Marty’s hat. He blows out a snort and rubs his muzzle on it some, making Marty’s face screw up when the horse’s whiskers tickle around his ears.

“I haven’t got anything for you,” he says, holding his empty hands up for proof of innocence. “It’s all gone.”

When the horse goes back to his eating Marty lets out a sigh and settles down so his head is pillowed against Rust’s lap, hat pulled down further over his eyes. “Wake me up in ten,” he says, and then pushes his hat back up like he just remembered something.

“One more thing,” he says, and gets the collar of Rust’s flannel between two fingers so he can sit up halfway and pull him down for a kiss.

Rust grins against Marty’s mouth and then eases back, right eye gone squinty with the corner of his mouth twitching on one side. “I don’t remember this part in the Butch and Sundance movie,” he says, and Marty laughs.

“Fuck that ending,” he says, closing his eyes again and getting comfortable in Rust’s lap. “Anybody asks, tell ‘em we rewrote it.”  
  


 


End file.
